


Bullet

by VerySincerelyYours



Series: Blackout [2]
Category: Do No Harm (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canon Divergent, Drug Use, Graphic Description of Injuries, I can't help it I do med okay, Ian isn't as much of an asshole as he could have been, Kinda, M/M, Missing Scene, Poor Ruben, Sub-par first aid, feat. processed cheese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerySincerelyYours/pseuds/VerySincerelyYours
Summary: The missing scene between window-jumping and burger-eating with a little more blood, and a lot more subtext.





	Bullet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imadeyouapancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadeyouapancake/gifts).



> Prompt: The jumping-out-the-window-during-a-bullet-storm-whilst-high-on-drugs scene + “as if they’d have missed tho.” Yeah. This basically wrote itself.

There is absolutely no way tonight could get any more _abnormal._

Just as surely as Ian existed as a heinous variant abnormality in Jason’s brain, Ruben was very, _very_ not okay with the turn tonight had taken. He wasn’t particularly okay with how it had started, to be perfectly honest. He was sweating just thinking about what his mother would think of all this. Ian seemed so blasé, so sure of himself, while Ruben just clung along for the ride, lifted high on the mix of amphetamines and euphoria that was still pulsing through his bloodstream.

So, when Ian tells him the only way to survive the night is to jump face-first out of a window, a little part of Ruben thinks that it makes perfect sense. And then he remembers that Ian is insane.

  _“It’s our only chance.”_

_“No, no- no.”_

_“Do you trust me?”_

_“No!”_

_“Close enough.”_

Ian’s hand is tight, too tight, leaving a harsh imprint around his biceps, and he runs because Ian is running, because if he doesn’t run he’s going to end up standing here, alone, and getting shot, alone. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that it’s Jason who’s dragged him off on some unspeakable adventure, that maybe they’ll laugh about it tomorrow morning. Except Jason is too busy for laughing, at least not with Ruben, because Ruben’s got drugs to make, and it’s funny, isn’t it? He’s making drugs for both of them. It’s like primary school all over again, when kids would sit around him at recess so long as he shared his sweets and gave them answers to the maths homework.

He had, because he’d been young, and eager to make friends - even the pseudo kind. In some ways, it’s like he never really grew up, but breaking a chair over someone’s back to save your best friend’s brain anomaly from getting shot in the face by thugs working for the psychopath you’d just supplied illegal drugs feels like a _very_ adult thing to do.

Ruben isn’t sure whether the pink backpack full of cash makes everything marginally less harsh, or infinitely more surreal.

So now they’re running, and Ruben thinks _fuck,_ thinks _fuck I’m going to die fuck we’re going to fucking die I’m going to get shot and fucking die_. The window is getting bigger, barrelling towards them like it’s the one running, but it can’t be, because that’s Ruben, and he swears to every deity in the sky that he’s never run this hard in his life. The first few steps had been reflexive, and then Ian’s fingers had clenched tight in his collar, yanking unforgivingly at the back of his neck, and he didn’t have a choice, he _never had a choice-_

The sounds of guns going off behind him might be all in his head, but something tells him that it really, really isn’t. It’s impossible to think about when the window is suddenly _right there,_ and Ruben tries to brace himself, but he doesn’t know how. One of them hits the glass first, though Ruben can’t really tell who. He thinks he sees Ian pull ahead of him, but he closes his eyes within seconds, footsteps stuttering on the concrete. He tries to cover his head with his arms as the ground vanishes from underneath his feet.

Maybe the amphetamines are still working their chemical magic, but the pain and the elation slam into him as the glass shatters, creating warring sensations in his head. The moment of weightlessness seems to last forever, like he’s flying, like he’s been flying all night with Ian, up in some smoky clouds with pulsing club music and a thousand glittering stars.

The crashlanding is inevitable, really.

Ruben’s knees and forearms take the brunt of the fall, but he can’t tell whether it’s the shock of the impact or the sound of the van’s tin roof warping under his and Ian’s combined weight that rips a frightened noise from his throat. Everything suddenly hurts. Everything suddenly _burns,_ shards of glass burrowing into his fleshy palms. He squirms, trying to evade the sensation. Such movements are futile, but the drugs and the pain and the adrenaline are messing with his head, and not even the continued sounds of guns being fired is enough to bring Ruben back to reality.

Ian floats into his view and pressure forms against his shoulders. The white noise mellows, and he hears nothing, sound surreally absent as Ian’s mouth moves in wide circles and the world tilts back and forth in slow motion. Ruben’s eyes blur in and out of focus, long moments spent trying to decipher the weird shapes Ian’s mouth is making in front of him. And then, all at once, the _shhhh, shhh, shhh_ of white noise suddenly gives way to - “Ruben! Ruben _move!”_

Bullets start hitting metal, and the sound is deafening. Ian’s hand is a branding iron, nails like claws, stinging harshly at his shoulder. He’s pulling Ruben like some heavy burden, a sack of boiled potatoes. Only, burdens are things that people like Ian would leave behind, and yet he’s-

There’s another _crack,_ a gunshot, and a splatter of thick red on the van roof in front of them, bleeding out in all directions like a silhouette. There’s a burn unlike the others, throbbing in time with his heart, but he still can’t speak; doesn’t register more than some superficial abnormality, something gone horribly wrong. He turns his head, the only movement he can manage as Ian man-handles him off the top of the van.

His sleeve is stained red, like someone had just smushed a beetroot into the fabric.

_Carajo_ , Ruben thinks, hysterically. _There goes the demon on my shoulder._

“Move- _move,_ Ruben!” Ian is still yelling at him, now heaving with more force, and they roll their way onto another, intermediary surface, and then the ground is cold and wet beneath his damaged palms. The pink backpack smacks against the sidewalk beside his head, nauseatingly optimistic. Ruben manages to reach out and curl his fingers around it in the seconds before Ian is hefting him up by the arms, and something suddenly _hurts,_ white hot pain making his head spin and his stomach revolt, brain suddenly flooded with a desperate- _don’t throw up Ruben don’t throw up please God please don’t throw up._

Ian growls in his ear, huffing and heaving damply, snarling like an animal. He’s all muscle and compact strength. Ruben can barely get his own feet under him. He kicks at the ground, disturbs pebbles, doesn’t know whether he’s trying to stand or just squirm away from the pain, worse than anything he’s ever felt. Worse than the needles - God damn it, _please,_ bring back the needles. Bring back the shattered glass, the baseball bat. Bring back Jason looking right through him. _Anything._ His feet splash through muddy water, vision lurching like he’s on a boat, Ian’s teeth snapping like some shark, bullets firing like lightning across the waves and he’s being pulled under.

The car is close, thankfully. Ruben’s head is spinning, but his palms find the blisteringly cold metal of the bonnet, and Ian is growling again, words - no, _orders_. Neither Ian nor Jason deliver anything less than orders. Ruben’s frigid fingers fumble and slip.

“Get in! _Ruben!_ ”

Door - opening, closing. The gunfire stopped. It’s not a relief. Ruben heaves for air, struggles to get his mind online again. Wills his neuroreceptors to fire. He was given an order, after all. Get in. Get in. Get in. Get in.

The door handle proves to be a challenge, but he’s got a PhD and two masters and _god shit fuck it hurts_ but he’s not about to be thwarted by a fucking _door handle._ The car revs up just as he manages to get his fingers under the latch and _pull,_ and he almost stumbles backwards when it opens. Some sheer force of will leads to him stumbling forwards instead, feeling leather against his arm and face, his pants soaking up to the knee. He flails as the pain spikes, eyes stinging, twisting and wiggling his way further into the car.

He must look like a fish out of water, gasping and flailing about. His shirt feels damp. Ian’s cologne lingers on the gearbox. It fills his head, and he’s floating again, until the door slams and the car roars and Ruben falls away into some jagged abyss.

***

Ruben comes to when the car skids to a stop and he almost cracks his head open on the underside of the dashboard. Ian’s voice is a low drone, only a note or two above the buzz of the engine. He might have been talking the whole time Ruben was out - swimming vision tells him _minutes,_ _not long, not long_ \- since Ian had that tendency to soldier forward, leave behind anyone who couldn’t keep up with the technobabble.

No, that was… Jason. Jason was known for the technobabble. Ruben had always found it comforting, even if the way Jason delivered his lines seemed to drip with unrelenting _superiority_. It made Ruben wonder why he was even attracted to that - but Jason never left him behind, not _really,_ even if he made it seem like he would, like he did uncaringly to anyone without a mind as sharp as Ruben’s.

Ian didn’t technobabble. He probably didn’t have the capacity to, unless it was about, drugs, or, something. What was Ian interested in, anyway? Besides hurting Jason? The guy could really use some hobbies… Ruben pushed up onto his elbows, let his legs kick out in the foot well, blinked and blinked until Ian’s shirt stopped blurring before his eyes.

“Rubes! There you are, man!” Ian seems almost gleeful, a broad grin splitting his face in half, sharp teeth flashing like a shark in the deep sea. He grabs Ruben’s shoulder with his usual callous confidence, pushing him upright and slapping a hand over Ruben’s chest. The _thud_ reverberates through him, sets his nerve endings alight, catches a breath deep in his throat.

Colour must drain out of his face, because Ian’s grin seems to falter. Something calculating creeps into his eyes, hidden behind what looks like irritation. He pulls his hand back, scowls at Ruben like he’s a dog who needs to be scolded. Ruben tries not to cower in his seat.

Ian’s hand is red. _Beetroot_.

Ruben’s nerves light up, bright like a Christmas tree, action potentials firing up axons, like burning pokers. He left his arm in the fireplace. Thick sludge is dripping down his fingers, and he sits up just enough to clutch at the source, that typical _if I grab it it’ll hurt less_ reaction. His other hand is covered in thick stickiness, lights from the dashboard lighting him up a nauseating green and red. He’d said Christmas, hadn’t he?

“Shit- oh shit, oh shit oh shit oh shit-”

Ruben’s focus narrows down to that single point of burning pain, brown eyes welling up at the corners. He got shot. He went to a party and made drugs and jumped out of a window and got shot. He keeps cursing - _it lessens pain severity fuck Ruben fuck fuck_ \- though his voice is getting higher, tighter, pulling tauter and tauter like finely coiled rope. He hears a high-pitched whining noise for long moments, only to realise it’s coming from him.

Ian’s large hands are firm on his shoulders, shaking and steadying him in equal measures. Ruben wants to thrash, to throw him away, to curl up with his pain, but the grip is insistent, and as Ruben is stilled he remembers that he ought to breathe, _breathe, breathe, breathe-_

“Ruben - _Ruben!_ Jesus…” Ian moves with what looks like practiced efficiency, pinning Ruben back against the seat with a strong arm as he rummages around in the back - flicks the overhead light, pulls out a dark shirt ( _Jason’s_ , his mind supplies), a bottle of whiskey, a green and white first aid travel pack the hospital supplied for mandatory CPR training what must have been months ago. It clicks, then, that Ian must have taken one of Jason’s fancy sports cars. _He’s chief of surgery,_ he thinks, hysterically. _Makes more than Ruben can make in one night of drug trafficking. He can afford to lose a few._

Everything is hazy, for a long while, until Ian’s voice strengthens, loses that fluff around the edges. Ruben is still crying. “-don’t do anything by halves, do you? You’re lucky you didn’t get that led stuck in you…” Ian’s ass thumps back into the front seat. “Alright, Rubes, this might sting like a bitch, but-”

Ian seems to descend on him with the whiskey ( _not Jason’s_ ) and Ruben hasn’t consciously decided whether he thinks Ian is going to pour it over his arm or make him drink it before he flails backwards in protest. Ian looks at him like it’s the most out of character thing he’d done all night.

“W-what…” Ruben swallows, digs his nails in to the fleshy meat of his triceps brachii. “What are y-you-”

Ian’s eyes arch skyward as though they’re pulled by some magnet, body leaning in closer, as though he really doesn’t care what Ruben has to say. Like maybe he’s the doctor, and Ruben has a PhD in kitten taming instead of neurochemistry and immunological bioscience.

He may not be _that_ kind of doctor, not like Jason, but he took those mandatory first aid courses, and he swallows, lets his eyes wander to the slash in his arm.

_Superficial_ , his mind supplies. _Freely flowing._ His afternoon coffees almost make the return trip.

“It’s b-bleeding, so you don’t need to… it’ll c-clean itself.”

Ruben didn’t expect Ian to listen to him, not really - it seemed more likely that he’d charge forward like the raging bull he was, like Jason would have, because _Jason knows better, always, always,_ but Ian stops, jaw working, eyes steeling. Sets the whiskey down in the foot-well. Ruben whimpers a little in relief.

Ian rips open a pad with practised ease, presses it against Ruben’s arm without prompting, in a way that makes the pain flare alongside Ruben’s interest. Something tells him Ian has done this before. He focuses on those calloused fingers, Jason’s fingers, lacking surgical precision. They lull Ruben into a daze as Ian folds and twists and pulls. As the pressure increases, the pain lessens. Mind over matter, maybe. Ruben blows air out through his mouth, in through his nose.

Time seems to become fluid, hazy, burning, until a harsh tug of material around his injured arm, over the sterile pad, makes Ruben hiss and mumble a grumpy little - “Ow, ow!” The grin on Ian’s face is just this side of malicious, but every one of Ian’s expressions somehow look like he’s expressing dormant genes from reptilian ancestors, so it doesn’t make Ruben feel too small.

Ian looks like he might want to tease him, but he doesn’t do more than strengthen that grin, and tie off Ruben’s makeshift bandage into a drab little knot. Says, “If Jason asks who fucked up his car seats, you better own up.”

Strips of Jason’s shirt is used to mop up the blood on Ruben’s arm, smearing it in huge swipes until red becomes pink, pink becomes stained, irritated skin. Ruben bites his tongue, uses his free hand to pinch himself repeatedly. Flexes his toes, so his blood moves. Ian is repetitive, predictable. He’s never been predictable before, unless you counted predictably meddlesome, predictably malicious. He doesn’t seem to fit those moulds tonight, though. The overhead light brightens his hair, makes his eyes greyer.

Ruben must still be gaping like a beached fish, because Ian takes pity, and passes over the whiskey bottle. Ruben swallows thickly, wills his glomus cells to depolarise, his neurotransmitters to function. His breathing speeds up. “I shouldn’t… n-not with the, the a-amphetamine.”

Ian’s lips purse, tighten up at the sides, as though he disapproves. Like maybe Ruben being in pain is something he doesn’t want, or wants to lessen. As if Ian being worried about something might even be remotely possible.

Ian drinks the whiskey straight from the bottle, and Ruben thinks that he must have been mistaken.

***

They end up in a gas station rest room at three o’clock in the morning.

Ruben, against his better judgement, had given in to the lure of alcohol, and after the initial burn, eased into a superficial warmth and fuzzy awareness. It’s dehydrating him, making him colder, but it doesn’t feel like it just yet. His mouth feels tacky, adhesive, the drugs lighting up his oral receptors, making dust particles roll thickly across his tongue. Ruben is entertaining himself by looking at it in the mirror, trying to touch the tip to his nose, to his chin. He runs his fingers along the edge and coughs when his mind rejects the stimulation.

Ian had left Ruben to wash away the rest of the blood, and do whatever he wanted with the torn remains and his shirt sleeve. It’s probably unsalvageable. The sweater isn’t much better, except it’s black, and the combination of haemoglobin and electrolyte and plasma and dirt isn’t immediately obvious. Ruben has it soaking in the rest room sink - just the sleeve portion, while the rest of the fabric hung limply over the side of the porcelain - and runs the water so that the blood swirls away down the drain.

His shirt is another story. Getting blood out of anything already seems like an difficult task, but a white shirt? Ruben would have better luck convincing Jason that the sky was green. He’s pouting at the tear in his bloody sleeve when Ian re-joins him in the bathroom.

“Rubes! Want a flake? When the adrenaline wears off, you’re gonna get the next wave of that wonder drug of yours.” Ian seems childishly pleased, all sharp teeth and broad grin, clapping a hand against Ruben’s uninjured shoulder before checking his coiffure in the mirror. “Gives you the munchies. How’s the arm?”

Ruben prods at the bottom of the bandage, emboldened by a lack of inhibitions, slightly scattered from the strange mix of chemicals and hormones. It hurts, like an old bruise would hurt, if you pushed it too hard. Slow, sore, but if he exerts more force - sharp pain. There’s a reason for that, he thinks. _Competitive inhibition? Myelination of nerve fibres? The receptors’ saturation state? Pain hasn’t reached its efficacy - it’s not a drug, Ruben, even though it’s hazily obscured by sympathetic responses…_

Ian peers over, hooks a finger in Ruben’s torn shirt, tugs it aside. The fabric is all crusted at the edges, with flakes of dried blood falling from the interwoven threads. He clicks his tongue, presses something soft against Ruben’s chest.

Wait.

“Found it in the boot,” Ian offers, by way of explanation, and Ruben realises that it’s a shirt, white, clean, creases straight like rulers, like this shirt has been folded up and pressed to perfection. It must be one of Jason’s. No one else has more precise collars, little teeth marks from the metal clip of an ID badge in the front left pocket. Ruben curls his fingers up in the material and breathes in; he selfishly hopes for cologne, for musk, or even hospital smell. Something familiar.

Ian holds out a candy bar.

He’s become less aggressive, Ruben thinks. His tormentor, the one he’d been working tirelessly to restrain and destroy for years, looks… normal. Maybe he’s become accustomed to Ian’s presence somehow, in these short hours. Dinner with his family feels like a lifetime ago, and in that time, he’s grown out of his skittishness like a small animal does, when it’s living with a lion.  Ian is still an abnormality, and dangerous, but his existence isn’t odd to Ruben anymore. He realises, belatedly, that it never has been ( _drug induced ambiguity_ \- his mind retorts).

Ian doesn’t push, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand, either. Just leaves it there, as if he knows Ruben will take it, and Ruben does, pulling the candy bar to his chest, where the foil crinkles as it rubs against Jason’s shirt. He wonders if maybe he’d prefer to curl his fingers around Ian’s shirt.

“Eat up, get changed,” Ian chirps, still with that gleeful intonation. “Perk up too, Rubes! Now that you’re loaded, you can buy me a burger.”

Ruben’s mouth pulls up at one side without permission, his head getting a little weightless as in Ian moves, succinct and dominant, to the sink. He prods at the damp patch on Ruben’s jumper sleeve with a judgemental expression.

The seconds stretch out, sluggish and slow, until Ruben’s fingers begin to ache, and he becomes aware of how much time he’s spent staring at the strong slope of Ian’s back. He should be moving. Right. Movement.  He hesitates, wondering whether he ought to strip off his shirt right here; whether Ian would mind. _Probably not,_ Ruben’s mind supplies. _Did you want to show him what he’s missing?_

Ruben swallows thickly, shakes his head, as if this would knock the drug-induced hormones free from his neural receptors. That’s all it is, after all. Just drugs. He turns on shaky legs, fumbling with the latch to one of the toilet cubicles. Makes sure it’s shut and latched firmly behind him. _Not as if there’s much to miss._

***

The tear in Ruben’s jumper sleeve doesn’t look like much more than wear and tear from excessive love by the time Ian is done with it. The low energy hand dryers in the rest station bathroom managed to blow away most of the moisture, but Ruben can still feel a bit of a damp patch against his biceps muscle, and has to force himself not to adjust the sleeve constantly. The shirt he’d put underneath isn’t too big, but big enough to be noticeable. It crinkles up in certain places, hangs low on his shoulders.

Ruben is very conscious that it’s _Jason’s_ shirt.

He does end up buying Ian a burger. The roadside diner is bright, full of neon signage and optimistic pictures of half-priced breakfast meals, and Ruben needs to take a moment to get his senses under control, practically scampering along behind Ian as they find empty stools at the counter. He ends up pointing mutely at item number 12 on the menu - beef cheeseburger and fries - and Ian stops grinning smugly at him long enough to request two, making Ruben somehow feel very small but overwhelmingly giddy, both at the same time.

There isn’t much of a wait, but it’s long enough, at least, for Ruben to get his bearings. He’s sitting at Ian’s left, moving his tongue around restlessly in his mouth, letting his eyes flit from one bright thing to another. Too oversensitive to be chatty. Not yet, anyway. He is very conscious of the way the waitress behind the counter keeps looking over at Ian, looming like a blushing vulture.

Ian is saying something about how Ruben’s all grown up, and then there’s a cheeseburger in front of Ruben’s face, and the explosion of bread and cheese and meat on his tongue seems to finally kick his glottis into gear.

His post-shooting vocal debut begins with a series of debauched, appreciative moans, and Ian’s gaze seems to zero in on him all at once, watching Ruben like a hawk as he crams four mustard-coated fries into his mouth all at once.

_Ulterior motive,_ Ruben thinks. He wants to form a series of words that are witty and probing. Instead, he says; “I am in love, with processed cheese.”

His face feels weird, like he’s smiling too hard. To think, he’s spent so much of his life making drugs, but in all his working life, hadn’t taken them. Not ones like this, anyhow. And why, when they’re making him feel so good? Even though Ian, brushing elbows, makes him think _needles, needles, needles_ , the neon lights and salty meal dampen his panic.

_This is the same man who tortured you, Ruben. How fucked up are you?_

The amused huff from beside him crushes the thought. “You’re still high, you know that?” Ruben glances over just in time to see Ian flashing his teeth ( _smiling at him_ ) as he digs in to his burger, little cuts and scrapes littering one side of his face. It’s a wonder the glass managed to cut Ian’s cheeks, since Ruben is fairly sure those cheekbones are sharp enough to slice like a hot knife through butter.

What did Ian say again? Oh. He’s high. Yeah, he knows that. It’s wonderful.

The adrenaline wells up and Ruben has his medulla to thank for swallowing instead of giggling uproariously and subsequently choking on the cheeseburger. “That was _utterly insane_ ,” he says, voice muffled by the food in his mouth. He can’t stop the little bubbles of irrational laughter from moving up through his chest.

From his right, Ian agrees, sitting in a causal slouch with more sauce than french-fry between his fingers. The drugs, at least, make Ruben feel too buzzed to stare. “Turns out you really know how to party - and _run_. Who knew.”

The deadpan compliments set something thrumming. They’re having a civil conversation. Right? _Yes Ruben, that’s right._ They’re having a civil conversation and Ian is complimenting him and teasing him and eating chips and tonight has been a great night, _the best night,_ more dangerous and terrifying than any other, and yet Ruben had only just realised how much better he feels now than when he’s dragging himself home at four in the morning after working for 18 hours straight and forcing himself not to think about what Jason’s going to say to him at work the next day. Maybe this - _this_ \- is really living.

_What is it though, Ruben, that has you buzzing? The drugs? The recognition? Ian?_

A string of dripping cheese rolls over the outside of his forefinger, and the sensation banishes his thoughts, sets Ruben’s mind back into a deliriously chipper state. “Oh my god - I jumped out a _window!_ ”

“You jumped out of a window.”

“I jumped through” - he pauses to laugh, gesturing with his right hand - “and _out_ a window.”

“All the while wearing your cute little, pink backpack.” Ian starts smiling more broadly, huffing before words like he wants to laugh through them, and Ruben’s heart sings at the ease of this. Even when Ian teases him - especially then - it’s like they’re friends. The psychopath, that’s the one Ruben’s become friends with (in Ruben’s defence, it’s not like Jason has any time for cheeseburgers and fries).

Ruben beams, talking over the end of Ian’s sentence - “Don’t ruin it for me!” - and Ian… oh.

_Oh_. So that’s what Jason’s laugh would sound like.

 “By the way, you really know how to pick ‘em. Nice goin’…”

The next laugh comes quicker, without permission, and Ruben raises a hand to swipe over the edge of his mouth, catching remnants of invaluable cheese. “What are the odds the one girl into me would be Oz’s girl,” comes the response, highlighting the immense irony, though Ruben doesn’t really mind much, now he thinks about it. Getting laid would be great, but in the grand scheme of tonight? There were more than enough great events he’d tucked under his belt, so to speak. A couple that logically, seemed more awful than anything, but had turned out great in the end.

Maybe… most of them fit into that particular category. The bullet, for example. But even the burn in his arm wasn’t enough to distract him from the flavour explosion across his over-sensitised tongue, or the sound of Ian’s voice as it rumbled - “Yeah, what are the odds?”

“You saved my life,” Ruben returns, without hesitation, emboldened by the chemical concoction swirling around in his brain. Ian’s denial should be strange, but Ruben is busy making a point, and being adamant about it. Not a strong suit of his, but surely he’s picked up a thing or two from working in such close proximity to Jason for five years? “No, you did, you _saved_ my life.”

“Well, look,” - _is that a concession?_ \- “you didn’t do too badly yourself.” - _and_ _that’s as good as a thank you for the stunt with the chair_ \- “Think about it; a couple hours ago, you were convinced I was a murderer.” - _needles needles needlesneedlesneedles…_

Ruben makes a small sound around his last mouthful of burger, drugs still boosting his usually absent courage. “You’ve tried to kill me on several occasions.”

“Well c’mon you didn’t even…” Ian swipes at his mouth, averts his eyes for the moment. The idealist in Ruben sees an ounce of perplexing regret. “You were tryna wipe me out before I even knew you existed.”

As far as excuses go… Ian’s not wrong. At least, Ruben had always tended to be able to mould easily to others’ points of view, even when he honest to God had the moral high ground. The healed bruises and tender patches at his inner elbows should light a fire in him at Ian’s audacity, but his mind doesn’t work like that, even without inhibitions.

Perhaps it’s the lack of these that makes him roll his eyes skyward, but still digress - “I didn’t understand the implications at the time.” He rubs his lips together, spreading a little more salt over his tongue. Studies Ian with a kind of unassuming naivety. “So what is this? Truce?”

“No, this is… I dunno, I just… ah…” Ian seemed quick on the uptake, but slow, so slow, with each passing word. Ruben wonders for a moment if this is another whacky filter the chemicals have slotted over his mind. Speechlessness isn’t typically Ian - or Jason, for that matter. As the seconds stretch on with a marked absence of that deep voice, Ruben decides that it doesn’t look particularly good on either of them.

Ian presses chips together with his fingers, gathers up soft ones in a glob, and drops it into his gaping mouth, clearing his throat as he chews. Ruben tries not to watch his thyroid cartilage move with his swallow. He forgets what he was thinking about.

“C’mon,” Ian continues, finally, tossing a scrunched-up napkin into the now empty tub of fries. He changes the subject with confidence, like he knows no one will stop him. He seems steadier, on solid ground. Unlike Ruben, who’s still adrift, anchored only by the pain in his arm and Ian’s strong aura. The rest of the world is surreal.

“I could do with another burger ‘fore I drive you home. And you’d better get one for the go.” Ian lifts a hand, bringing it down with a thud against Ruben’s scapula - squeezes his shoulder, digits slotting in behind his collarbone. Ruben can visualise his supraclavicular lymph nodes being squashed by those calloused fingers. “Grease cures hangovers, my friend. That’s the 411.”

Ruben’s smile is slow, hesitant. It forms from one side of his mouth, before spreading to the other as he nods. Ian mirrors the expression, with more teeth. He raises a hand to usher over the waitress, and Ruben resolves to forget Jason until the morning.


End file.
